What might it be like to be a ghost? In addition to witnessing the future, you would discover what the living talk and write about. Not their legacy, but yours, once you are gone.

Will you be remembered? Did you leave a mark on the world? Did the impact of your existence last only as long as it took you to write your name on the ocean’s sandy shore, gone once the tide came in and erased it?

When we were both 16, a friend of mine hoped for more. “I want to do something great in my life,” he said. His time on earth did afford significant acclaim as a college professor who won awards for his teaching. Students thought the world of him, and he wrote a couple of books and many journal articles, though they were not widely read. In his eyes, none of this reached greatness. 

The importance he placed on lasting fame became a kind of self-torture, though he didn’t intend it to. 

While he focused on reaching the top of the ladder, his family, friends, loving wife, travel, and comfortable home were insufficient to free him from his fixation on an imaginary, unnamed achievement. 

What about you and me? Well, your children will remember you if you have them; your grandchildren too, if you are given enough life and the opportunity to connect. There will be videos and photos, but no guarantee that they will be perused. 

Many incidental traces of your existence might be put in a box or on a thumb drive. 

A lock of hair and the sound of your recorded voice will last, while the scent of your skin and the fragrance you applied to your body will fade, along with your embrace, and all the kisses, laughter, and smiles that enriched your being.

If you showed kindness and helped others, worked to repair the world, were a transformative leader, or pursued a helping profession, you will be remembered by some of those lucky enough to benefit from your talent and effort. Of course, expert teachers cause ripple effects that extend far beyond the students’ presence in their classes.

Past two generations? Unless you achieved lasting fame, time will likely render your name one of those little recalled. Nonetheless, you needn’t succeed to fashion a name that survives beyond you. Sinners as well as saints also make their mark. 

The drama of your story, the laughter, the pain, the tears, the joy, the gain, and the loss will vanish unless you write your autobiography. No formal scorecard of your life will exist unless you were a professional athlete or Olympic champion.

Ah, but there are exceptions. My friend, Tom Saler, wrote a book about the symphony and opera conductor Carlo Maria Giulini. It is still in press—the only English-language biography of the remarkable man whose life he described. But do note that it is Giulini’s life that is examined, while the writer’s life is not well known.

I expect Tom’s name to survive. That, by itself, is remarkable.

Many of us have created resumes or CVs (Curriculum Vitae). These offer an academic and professional history of a life, but are impersonal. They list one’s surface accomplishments such as university degrees, jobs held, honors, essays, and published research. Job applicants are expected to provide this to their prospective employer, typically a page or two.

Regarding books and the capture of how one moved and spoke, video interviews and memory compilations like Storyworth have become popular, often as gifts from adult children. The loved one chooses questions for the parent to answer, one per week in written or recorded form. After a year, a book is created. 

I have written one of these myself, 400 pages worth.

Why? 

For my children and grandchildren, no one else. 

This is not to keep anything from others. Beyond some of my blog followers and friends, however, I doubt anyone else will care about my thoughts on the time I lived in, the life I led, the things I accomplished, and where I found meaning as the days of my life dissolved. 

Much of what is in the book will not surprise my blog followers. The difference is that some of what I have written for my children and grandchildren is more personal.

None of this means I have dismissed the accomplishments of my working life. I am happy I achieved what I did and believe I have been a lucky man so far. Why “so far?” The ancient Greek sage Solon reminded Croesus, the wealthiest man in the world, that one should never call oneself fortunate until the very end.

I never anticipated the doors that opened for me, but I had the wisdom to walk through them and try to remold myself as I came to understand my weaknesses: what I didn’t like about myself. 

That is part of my story too, but the actual achievements are not much thought about by me. They are in the past, a place I do not now inhabit. 

In the present, I am more focused on the modest amount of time ahead and on what I can do to make the world a little better. Of course, I expect to maintain the relationships I’ve had for many years for as long as possible.

As you might have concluded by now, I am comfortable with the notion of fading away once I pass away. 

Never did I hope to become Napoleon or the aforementioned Giulini. What I have done is more than enough. 

From my perspective, I lived through the best moment in world history in the right country, a land of opportunity and safety, though, regrettably, not for people of color. 

My parents’ modest income was not an impediment to attending fine universities and a splendid graduate school. 

I made marvelous friends and held on to many of them for most of my lifetime. Love pursued me from an unexpected place, and within the family, my wife, children, and I fostered abiding affection. 

My life was crowned with the people I touched and who touched me. I evaluated close to 3,000 individuals and joined others in the shared effort to improve their lives. Some of these folks taught me more than a little about bravery and resilience. I was privileged to receive their emotional openness and trust. 

Over more than twenty years, I had the opportunity to record interviews with many of the men and women of the Chicago Symphony. Their voices and mine live in the Chicago Symphony archives. 

In the recent past, I have decided to say some things to friends—things I have not told them before. It is the why and how of my appreciation of them as we sit together at breakfast or lunch. 

None of us can predict when our end will come. Best to communicate to those we care about why they are precious. 

Were you to ask me what has been the most essential element in my life, I would say it without hesitation: time. The time to do the things I have done, to make mistakes and try again, and to encounter the people who made a difference to me. 

Beyond that necessity there is something more. Should you wish to hear what is most important in the life I have led and am leading, the answer is simple: love.

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The first image is “Coming into Miami Last November from Argentina “ by Laura Hedien, with her kind permission. The last is Mucha’s 1905 Madonna of the Lilies.